


Witness

by renwhit



Series: Road to Damascus [10]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But like Make or Break that shit is SAD, Cane user Jon, Canon-Typical Death, Canon-Typical Existential Horror at the Reality of your Existence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Derealization, Discussion of Death, End!Tim, Ghost!Tim, Identity Issues, M/M, Minor Dissociation, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Not ship teasing anymore gang!, POV switch, RtD-Typical Abstract Bullshit, Ship CANONIZING!, Ship Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwhit/pseuds/renwhit
Summary: “What, so if I use my connection to the End to kill them, that’s better than hitting them with an axe? Death is death, Jon. Soul ripped from your body or bleeding out.”Jon straightened where he stood, mouth tight and knuckles ashen on the grip of his cane. “Cleanup is a bit easier for one than the other.”Tim smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Then we better hope plan A works.”Or, in which there are miles to go and promises to keep.
Relationships: Background Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Background Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Background Tim Stoker & Danny Stoker, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Series: Road to Damascus [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1594225
Comments: 165
Kudos: 440
Collections: GerryTitan verse





	1. Thanatos

**Author's Note:**

> unlike all other installments, this one is two chapters! it's split POV like make or break, but because it's not about the same string of events putting them back to back didn't make much sense. be sure not to miss ch2, we're finalizing some SHIT in there
> 
> new arrivals, i can't stress enough how important reading the rest of the series is before this one, especially BECAUSE:  
> this installment (both chapter 1 and 2) is FULL of little easter egg references to both canon and previous installments! i'd say take a shot for each one you find, but i do need you all to live long enough to read the last installment
> 
> suggested listening: casualty by hidden citizens

It was difficult to tell how late it was — so late it was early, no doubt, but keeping track of time was tricky in the archives. No windows, and the ticking of clocks drove Jon up the very walls. His computer had the small clock in its corner, of course, but it was rare that he remembered to check it. 

He had no reason to now, anyway. Not with Tim and Basira in his office looking, for the first time in Jon couldn’t remember how long, light.

“So they said there were two dogs in the place, right, and I’ve already got one. Thing’s unconscious because of the smoke and everything, but it's alive, and—”

“Is this a lap dog, or…?” Basira asked from her place in the chair across from Jon.

Tim shook his head with a laugh. “Wish I was that lucky. No, it was big. Couldn’t tell what breed — I think some kind of mix between a pit bull and a retriever? Big, either way. So I’m trying to get to where the other dog is in the bedroom on the ground floor, got the big one over my shoulders, but since my hands were manifested to hold onto the legs I’m getting some burns and—”

“Couldn’t you have just… balanced it?” Jon cut in. 

“On half-existent shoulders in a burning building? While I’m running ‘round trying to find the other one? Could’ve, sure, but that’s asking for disaster. Not like any burns I got were going to stay.”

Jon tugged on his cardigan sleeves. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

Without a third chair in the office — Jon really did mean to get one, but then, there were a lot of things he meant to do — Tim remained standing. He’d been leaning on the wall not too long ago, but now he was in dramatic story mode. Full-arm gestures and everything.

“So finally I get to the master bedroom, I end up having to kick down the damn door, and there’s the second dog — this little ratty-looking chihuahua. The building’s on fire, it’s _covered_ in soot and all, but _even then_ ,” Tim continued with eyes wide. “The bugger starts barking at me! I’m here to save its damn life, but this _g-ddamn chihuahua_ thinks that it has to defend its home turf, the home turf that is _literally on fire!”_

Basira shook her head with a short laugh. “So what did you do, just herd it out of the house?” It was at that Jon realized he wasn’t sure the last time he’d seen her look relaxed. He spared a moment to send a brief, internal _thank you_ Tim’s way — there was no telling how tense she’d be without someone like him for her to talk to, not to mention how tense things might get between her and Jon without Tim as a go-between. 

“I thought about it, but there were some crashing noises from the first floor. I didn’t want to waste the time getting it to cooperate.” Tim reached up to tuck a strand of hair that had fallen free from his bun behind his ear. “So I just kept holding onto the big one with one hand, then I nabbed the little one by its sweater.”

Jon knew logically that the situation would have been stressful for Tim in the moment, but with the image of him damn near juggling these two dogs, one massive, passed out, and draped across him; the other tiny and doing its level best to bite off his fingers; all in this absolute disaster zone; he couldn’t help but smile. No doubt because he knew it ended well if Tim was talking about it all with such ease. 

“So finally I get them outside, right, family’s all crying when I hand them over and I’m having to come up with a reason I put the big one in a blanket that’s not, _well, I had to be able to make contact somehow considering I’m a ghost,_ when the damn chihuahua—”

Basira was already laughing. “—Started barking at you again?”

“Started barking at me again! It sounds like a demon because of the smoke, in its ash-covered sweater and all, this little monster starts _barking_ at me even though I just saved its little monster life!”

Jon joined their laughter, pushing some of his greying curls out of his eyes when his head dipped with the motion. Tim turned to Jon, face deadly serious.

“Have we considered that all chihuahuas are avatars of the Slaughter? Because I think that’s worth discussing.”

“Desolation,” Basira countered with a thoughtful hum. “The Slaughter’s violent, but Desolation wants to hurt everything a person loves just for the joy of it.”

“She’s right.” Solemnly, Jon nodded. “They— Wait…”

Static tugged his thoughts. Formed into shapes. Negative space, movement he couldn’t see, encroaching. 

“Something’s coming.”

Basira and Tim’s eyes snapped onto him at the exact same time, all levity draining away in an instant.

Basira spoke first. “What is it?”

“I— I don’t know, I can’t—”

Tim next. “From where?”

A shake of his head. “I can’t— I can’t see anything, it’s just—”

“Dark.” Basira’s face was grim. “You said you can’t see it, but can you see _around_ so we know where they’re coming from?” 

Part of Jon was tempted to close his eyes, but it wasn’t as if he truly registered the space still around him, not with how much focus this took. “They’re— They’re still by the Thames, crossing the bridge. I have no idea how many.”

Tim looked to Basira. “How do you want to take this?”

“You’ll have better odds in Darkness, right?”

“Things still die in the Dark, so I should be able to find ‘em even if I can’t see.”

“You take perimeter, I hold the Institute.” 

“Got it. Where’s Daisy?”

“With Melanie.”

Jon looked back and forth between them, brows furrowed. “What are you—”

“I’ll make the rounds, get everyone to pass out the prepped stock of torches.”

“Prepped stock of—?” It was like Tim and Basira were having the second half a conversation Jon hadn’t even known existed. 

“Sounds good.” Tim gave her a short, casual salute, but it didn’t distract from the hardness in his eyes. “Won't be long.”

As one, they left, and Jon sat baffled at his desk. After a moment spent returning to his senses, he snatched up his cane and hurried after them. 

Basira was already gone; he could hear her quick pace in the hall. Tim made a stop by the desks to grab something, then headed for the door as well. 

Braced on his shoulder was an old, familiar axe.

Already sputtering, Jon moved as quick as he was able to catch up. “What are you doing?” 

“You heard Basira: holding perimeter.” 

“With an _axe?”_

Tim didn’t even look at him. “Always gotta have a plan B.” 

“So, what, you’re just going to start _killing_ them all?” 

“What do you think is going on here, Jon?” Tim did stop then, turning on his heel to pin Jon in place with dark, dark eyes. “Do you think these people are going to walk in and say, _Oh, hello all! We’re just here to kill the Archivist, don’t mind us,_ then waltz their way down here without so much as a fight? Just ask politely if you feel like being murdered by their fun cult and leave without argument if you say no?

“They’re coming this way to kill you, and they’ll kill every single person in this building to do that. You know how many people work here? It’s stupid late, sure, but you know how late some of the research crew stays. Hell, Peter’s got half the staff on a night shift now to better isolate them all. If anyone outside hears something and tries to find out what’s happening, that’s more deaths. D’you know how many people stand between the Church and you?”

Tim didn’t have to say the number. Jon Knew. Still, this was a lot to take in.

“But you’re just going to— to _axe murder_ some people in the middle of London? Can’t you use some kind of End-related ability?”

“What, so if I use my connection to the End to kill them, that’s better than hitting them with an axe? Death is _death_ , Jon. Soul ripped from your body or bleeding out.”

Jon straightened where he stood, mouth tight and knuckles ashen on the grip of his cane. “Cleanup is a bit easier for one than the other.”

Tim smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant expression. “Then we better hope plan A works.”

It was odd to feel some relief at that — no matter what he said, Tim still intended to use his abilities as an avatar to defend the place, not a genuine weapon. Jon wasn’t sure why one sat better with him than the other, but here they were. 

Part of Jon wondered if death was necessary in the first place, but he knew that was simply how Tim thought. It was how he thought even in life — death was the only move that truly changed things. In his statement before the Unknowing, he said that Gertrude was the single person who’d managed to really hurt the things they fought against, and she did so through sacrificing life. He expected his own life to be used in the same way, because that was how it worked.

Whether Tim had conceptualized life and death that way even before the Institute, there was no telling, but regardless Jon was certain the End did not choose him for its own on a mere whim.

People would die. It was inevitable. Tim had decided it would not be them. 

The Institute lobby rang empty. Outside the front window was nothing but impenetrable black. Jon looked over to Tim, and Tim did not look back at him. Whether he was assessing the situation, feeling for every point of light in the Dark, or merely steeling himself, it was impossible to say.

Tim only stopped for a beat before moving once again towards the door, Jon on his heels. Just before they could descend the steps, Tim turned back to Jon and held up an arm. The presence of an actual forearm braced across Jon’s chest for him to bump into caught him by surprise — a solid presence, and still no waver on the hand wrapped around the axe handle. He remembered months ago, when Tim couldn’t hold a few mugs and carry a conversation without the ceramic slipping from his ephemeral grip and shattering. Now, Jon knew just how much he was doing at once. He Knew. Holding his weapon, keeping Jon back, following Basira’s movement from floor to floor, fixing on every single life in the void and every single one in the Institute.

All this in a few short months. Jon wondered if his own abilities looked so exponential to the outside observer — if Tim even recognized how far he had come. 

“I need you to stay out of my way.” Tim’s voice wasn’t cold. It wasn’t empty. It was solid and allowed for no argument. 

Jon never cared much for what he was allowed to do. “I’m not sending you into _that_ alone—”

“You’re not sending me anywhere.” Tim didn’t so much as move, but Jon watched his eyes shift as whatever came for them drew closer. “I’m going. I’m not exactly going to be using my eyes to find them — I’m tracking life. You might’ve been dead for a bit, but you’re alive now. If I don’t look before I swing, I could hit you. Stay here.”

There was nothing he could say to that, and Tim took his silence as agreement. Even around that same hardness, that same resolve, he gave Jon one last half-smile.

“I’ll be back ‘fore long.”

And again, again Jon could only watch as this man he cared for walked somewhere Jon could not follow. The void-black that hid every building and lamppost from view was far different from soft grey fog, but Jon hated it all the same. 

Darkness consumed Tim as he drew close until he was nothing more than a moving silhouette, then that too vanished. Jon was alone. 

He couldn’t see in the Dark, of course he couldn’t. However antithetical the Stranger was to the Eye, the Dark was even moreso. An eye’s scope or scale was no matter when blind.

Yet, he had seen the Dark in its purest form. He Knew it. 

Yet, he had seen Tim down to the core. Who he was. What he was. 

Tim had felt Jon across hundreds of miles, right after returning from death. He had his fixed points in the Institute: Basira, Martin, Jon himself. He saw no reason he couldn’t make that work both ways. If there was a tether between them, that meant it was something he could follow whether or not he was the one to form it in the first place.

Again, closing his eyes was useless. He stayed in the tentative safety offered by frail, cold light of the Institute, and he watched.

There were no words he could give for how different it was from sight. Jon supposed that was the point.

It was like… night vision lenses, where he knew what occupied a place that seemed alien for how different it was than the lit world. 

No, it was like… a thermal sensor, where he could feel movement and stillness without detail, focused on one individual and picking up traces of those it drew near.

No, it was more like… watching a lighthouse in endless, murky night, waiting for that flicker to guide in the rhythm of a heartbeat, only able to hope when it vanished that it would return. 

It was Dark. It was nothing but Dark.

Jon didn’t see Tim’s measured steps slow, but he knew it happened all the same. Head forward. Listening. Feeling. Waiting. As patient as the End itself.

Whatever senses Tim used in this void, they were far quicker than Jon’s not-sight knowledge. He took a small, neat step to the side as some form barreled past. There was no way for Jon to tell what it was — person, monster, or something in between — but Tim didn’t hesitate in reaching for it. 

The form turned on him, and though Jon couldn’t See, liquid darkness running between teeth flashed in his mind. It swept at Tim, with claws or blades or a simple fist, and Tim didn’t bother to dodge a strike that would by its nature never hit. When the lack of contact made the form overbalance, he set the flat of his palm against what Jon assumed must be the thing’s— the _person’s_ back. 

They crumpled on the spot. There was no telling what expression was on Tim’s face, but Jon could tell he went still for a brief moment before continuing forward.

There was no telling through sight, at least. Jon needed no Eye to know that Tim’s face was blank and impassive. The hand that served as his weapon was now traced with dark veins across the wrist and up his arm. Not _Dark_ , Jon knew: the dark of poisoned blood. The dark of ending.

Tim had a job to do. He would do that job. It was inevitable. 

More forms moved, and Tim responded in kind. Not all met such a clean, simple end — as much as any end in this kind of attack could be clean or simple. Some he struck with the axe in his hand, though he used the heavy, blunt side rather than the blade itself. Were this a movie, it would be the perfect thing to knock the attackers unconscious until the authorities arrived. 

Tim didn’t know as well as Jon how easily fatal a single blow to the head could be. He knew _better._

Every so often, he would turn and reach out, then pull his hand back. It wasn’t until one form breached the Dark that Jon understood.

The woman stepped out with eyes narrowed against the sudden light. It was a mere breath before she saw Jon and recognized her prize for what he was. 

Jon was in no state to run, but what else could he do?

Two steps. That was all the movement he had time for when the woman’s feet went out from under her, and she fell.

Eyes sightless. Knife rolling free from her still-warm hand. Deep in the Dark, Jon knew Tim had just reached out and pulled his hand back in that same way, and he understood.

Blood-poisoned veins traced up Tim’s neck and across the square of his jaw. Jon looked without looking, but could find no wounds. No slashes through his flesh, no bone exposed. That was— that was good, right? It meant there was no panic or fear.

What this was, this version of him traced with poison and void-black eyes, Jon didn’t know. 

Maybe it was acclimation to watching without seeing; or a better grasp on the lighthouse tether that guided his blind sight; or simply fewer members of the Church standing to hold the obfuscation; in any case he was growing more able to parse what hid in the Dark. It was only because of that he was able to tell that the next figure to strike at Tim did so with a knife in hand. 

Rather than let it pass through him as he had so many blows before, Tim grabbed the sharp edge before it could fail to hit. The blade bit into his fingers and palm, no doubt, and a metallic tang hit the back of Jon's throat. Not free-flowing without a heart to push blood, but it welled all the same as he tore the blade from the person’s grip.

There was no way such an injury was painless if his hand manifested enough to form nerves. Did Tim no longer feel that pain, or was he at this point simply well-practiced at hiding what pain he felt?

It was then Jon realized he didn’t know the answer. He didn’t know if he _wanted_ the answer.

The Eye had never concerned itself with what knowledge Jon wanted.

Even from here, in this, Jon could feel fear from the one who’d watched this man wrap his hand around their blade without flinching, then disarm them as easy as they breathed. Terror built until unforgiving wood met their temple, and they crumpled. 

An avatar was, at its most natural state, a being of fear. Created it. Fed on it.

Some of those in the Church fled. Not many. More fell. Some right next to Tim, some further, some who Jon knew must have attempted to flank the Institute to no avail. None made it to the building. After the one woman who’d seen Jon, none got so much as close. 

There was no telling how long it was before a single person remained. The Dark didn’t budge, but now Jon could focus in enough to Know vague suggestions of expression — and, to his own surprise, hear the words that came with them.

“Bold of someone from the Eye to walk into the Forever Blind.” The man grinned, wide and sharp with oilslick Darkness.

Tim’s head tilted to the side. His voice was quiet. “You can’t see in the Dark either, can you?”

“No one can. We’re all blind, and blinder still once the Eye loses its pupil.”

“You don’t know that you’re alone.” 

A falter, though the man attempted recovery. “We’re all alone in the Dark, but the Church stands together with its blessing.”

“Together?” Tim took a pointed step forward. It was as silent as any other, but even blind, the man couldn't miss how that voice drew close. “Everyone you came with is dead or ran.”

“What? No, the Divine Host—”

“Is gone.” His words carved into the air with nothing, nothing void. 

“...You’re not from the Eye. Who— Who the hell are you?”

“I’m not a _who._ I’m a _when.”_ He leaned in, and the man’s fear grew so thick Jon could taste it. “And to you, I’m a _now.”_

Movement, though from neither of the two standing. Hands; twisted, burnt things. Where they came from, Jon had no idea. They clawed into the man’s clothes, climbing up his legs to lash around his chest and arms. Every blackened corpsefinger looked brittle, but they held strong against the man’s thrashing screams as they dragged him to the ground. 

When Jon’s sight that was not sight turned back to Tim, he froze. 

The poison-black web across his skin had not otherwise moved, but that on his face was long gone. Everything from his cheekbones down was only torn flesh and blood, with traces of bone scattered throughout. To Jon’s untrained and all-too-knowing eyes, it looked as if his jaw had been ripped clean from his body.

When had he Witnessed this death? It wasn’t one he told Jon in any of his tight-smiled, white-knuckle statements. What things did he see that he never spoke of?

At this moment, it didn’t matter. Not when it wasn’t Tim watching with cold, void-black eyes as charred skeletal hands crushed this person into the asphalt. Ribs broke, punctured the lungs. Death was swift. 

This was not the face made of blade-sharp edges and the stuff of nightmares. That form was meant to threaten and frighten. This was the Witness as nothing more than what it was. It needed no knifeclaws because it in itself was not a threat. It was a promise.

Jon half expected it to float off the ground as ghostly and ephemeral as ever, but no. No, it felt solid. A fixed point. As inescapable as a black hole. 

Without any of the Church left to hold it, the Darkness faded. The streetlights didn’t turn on — latent effect of the Dark or pre-planned sabotage from its Church, either were possible — but stars shone as bright as the sun after so long of empty void. 

Jon didn’t pause to count bodies. They didn’t matter, not when the Witness held still in the center of the street. He walked in a cautious arc to come at the Witness from the side, thinking of what Tim said before all this — how Jon was alive, and he would be looking for life. The Dark was gone now, yes, but would the Witness look before it struck?

“Tim?” Jon didn’t know how he managed to keep his voice level with the bloody mess not two meters away, but somehow it held.

It held, but there was no reaction. Jon swallowed.

“Witness?”

Its attention snapped onto Jon, gaze sharp and white scleras gone a bloody red. 

The Witness’s eyes were not dark, because dark could only be when there was light to contrast it. They were not cold, because in them there was no such thing as warmth. They were not empty, because there was no space that could be filled.

There was nothing, and the nothing hurt.

“What— What do you see?” It had worked in the Unknowing, calling him to see the situation as it truly was. Perhaps it could work here. 

Oblivion looked him up and down, paying no mind to the horrific injury twisted down its front. It knew who he was. The Witness knew exactly who Jon was, and it did not care. 

Jon was a blip. Nothing. One more life so inherently finite he might as well already be dead. In the span of reality, he’d never been alive. Why would death care for any single mote of dust?

The Witness didn’t care about Jon. The Witness was also not the end-all, be-all of the man before him.

He had to try again. “Tim?”

Void eyes narrowed in slight consideration. 

“Tim, can— can you hear me? We’re right outside the Institute. You protected everyone inside from an attack by the People’s Church.” It wasn’t that Jon thought Tim had forgotten any of that, nor that he no longer recognized where he was. Basira had somehow found that steady, consistent speech worked best as a grounding point without any option for the touch that Jon knew Tim had once preferred. He wasn’t as steady or consistent as Basira, but he was here and he cared. That had to mean something.

The Witness turned back to where charred hands had crumpled to nothing but ash, and when Jon heard a slight choking noise from the mess of blood and horror still spilled down him, he knew Tim had come back to himself. 

“Tim, hold on—”

The words came late as Tim threw a hand up in some futile attempt to block Jon’s view of his face; as if Jon hadn’t seen a lifetime’s worth of violence and injury, half on Tim himself during his statements. 

Tim stumbled back before staggering and hitting the ground on one knee, head bowed as his flesh began to knit back together millimeter by millimeter. 

Yes, Jon knew Tim had steeled himself for this exact thing. Knowing was different than seeing. Than doing. Than being this close to someone who breathed mere minutes ago, and who did no longer because Tim had decided that their End was here and now. Bloody, broken bones, by his command. 

Eighteen souls met the End and its Witness, and a mere six more successfully escaped. There was no way to prepare in full for that. All Jon could do was kneel and reach out, and falter when he remembered there was nothing there he could touch. Nothing. 

The cry Tim let out burned like sandpaper under Jon’s breastbone. What was he supposed to do? 

He knew that between him and Daisy, touch helped. When they huddled together on the tiny, cracked break room couch, he didn’t feel like an Archivist. He wasn’t sure he felt like Jon Sims either, but he felt human. The scratch of her nails in his hair didn’t fix any of his hurts, but that was never the point. 

He knew that Tim had always functioned by touch. Bumped shoulders, hand on his back, mouth grinning in reward for Jon’s tentative returns. 

He knew that Tim once had outlets in Georgie and the Admiral. Outlets that were no longer available. Outlets that had to rescind something Tim never expected to get back and lost all over again. Jon could only wonder how bitter it tasted that Daisy was still allowed there — reasonable to an extent, considering she wasn’t formed and fed by the entity that ruled her, but Jon couldn’t imagine that soothed the burn. 

In short, Jon had nothing. Jon had nothing at all.

No one else was supposed to _need_ a humanizing touch. Only Jon. He had chosen this, but Tim? Any choices Tim was given lacked full context and the truth of where his paths led. Jon chose his role. Tim did not. Now, because of a choice he was never given the tools to understand in full, he had even less than Jon: nothing besides faint, neutral pressure to mimic something that once defined his humanity. 

And that, Jon decided, was bullshit. 

The living could not touch the dead, Jon Knew, as well as he Knew that no one could escape the Buried. That no one not of the Dark could look upon its Star.

Whether made by his grandmother or by his employer or by cosmic forces of terror incarnate, rules had yet to stop Jon from doing something he decided must be done.

Jon didn’t belong to the End as Oliver did. He didn’t spend months upon months ruminating on the End and nothing but as Georgie did. Despite that, Tim said it himself: Jon had, for a brief period, died. He was alive now, but he had his own brush with the End, and for those others that was all it took. 

Calling his own fear of death to mind was as simple as breathing when it never left in full. Calling his love for his friend out with it took no thought when it beat in the rhythm of his heart. There was no question of whether or not those together would be enough for Jon to make this work. It would work. There was no other option. Scarred hands hesitated in the air for the briefest moment before Jon crossed the last bit of distance between them. 

And, when he made contact with ice-cold skin for the first time, he nearly cried with absolute relief. 

Tim’s eyes flew open at the brush of Jon’s fingers against his face. Even as he leaned into the touch and lifted one shaking hand to cup against the back of Jon’s where it lay, his head shook in complete disbelief. The awful injury that’d torn through him mere moments ago had faded enough for Jon to catch him mouth a silent, _What?_

Though burn scarring on one hand dampened the sensation, still Jon brushed his thumbs across Tim’s cheekbones to catch the few tears there. Tim’s eyes closed again, and the hand that’d pressed against Jon’s slid down to wrap around his wrist, almost as if he intended to pull Jon’s hands away. If he did so because he was overwhelmed, fine, but Jon didn’t think that was why. 

“Tim. Tim, look at me.” 

“Witness.” The word scraped its way free from a ragged throat. 

“No. Your name is Tim.” 

“But I—”

“Tim. _Look_ at me.”

He did. Shirt bloody, hands bloodier, he did. 

“Promise me.” Jon’s voice shook. “Tim Stoker, you promise me right now — you do not give up on me, do you hear me? You do not give up.” 

“I— I can’t, I—” 

“I can’t lose you too.”

Their eye contact broke as Tim bowed his head. “I just— Jon, I just _killed—_ ”

“You just _saved people_. You said yourself. They wouldn’t have spared anyone in their way. You stopped them from hurting anyone.” 

Even as he leaned further into Jon’s touch, Tim remained silent. 

“Please, Tim, I— I am not losing you. Please, promise me.” Jon could hear desperation creeping into his voice, but what was he if not desperate? Sasha died. Melanie left. Georgie left. Basira barely trusted him. Martin was gone. Jon couldn’t, _couldn’t_ lose Tim. He and Daisy were all Jon had left. 

In a motion that both soothed Jon and broke his heart, Tim gave a shaky, stuttered nod. 

“I… I promise.”

Jon met Tim's forehead with his own. Exhaustion threaded through him, though he wondered if he had any right to it with how empty Tim must feel. Maybe it was because of that, like Tim’s own exhaustion was so all-consuming Jon shared in it. 

It was a long, long moment before he spoke. “We should find Basira and tell her what happened. You can’t— I don’t want you having to do something like this again.” 

“No, I—” Tim jerked back, almost out of Jon’s hands in full. “I can’t do that, I can’t leave her alone again.” His words moved in erratic fits and starts. “She’s— this place is full of lights and she sees them, I know she does, and sh-she’s _alone,_ I’m not going to make her be alone, I _can’t_ , I—”

With thumbs brushing again, less to catch tears and more in some attempt to calm, Jon said, “You didn’t. You didn’t leave anyone, alright? You helped, you stepped up this time. She wasn’t by herself. Next time is— is someone else’s turn, alright? You did your part.”

Tim’s eyes fixed on Jon with an amount of desperate trust that left him breathless. All he could do was continue and hope that, somewhere in the words he said, Tim found steady ground. 

“These people, they— they died. And yes, you did that. But you also saved just as many lives by stopping them — more, probably. You did. And— and you’ve saved more lives just in your work as an avatar. You’ve always fought, Tim, always, and I don’t know how." Breathless, Jon swallowed hard. "I don’t know how you see so many awful, gruesome deaths and still keep trying to fight. I know you talk to people when you’re pulled to them— a-and, it’s not all the time, it’s not everyone, but I know you talk to anyone who’s young or scared or alone, and I don’t know _how_ you’re still able, but you are. 

“That’s not any Witness, Tim. That’s you. That’s you, I swear. I Know.”

There was quiet, long enough that Jon started to wonder if he’d said something wrong. Just as he thought that, Tim fell into him; head buried against his neck, and arms so tight around his chest it almost hurt. 

They wouldn’t be able to stay here forever, not with this much that needed to be done. Basira would have to call the police and request Sectioned officers. There would be questions to answer, torches to restock, staff to calm down. Somehow, they’d need to make sure Peter was made aware of this whole nightmare. Tim would need to tell Basira what’d truly happened — Jon Knew much, yes, but the Dark still limited him; he didn’t worry about Tim keeping anything hidden when it was Basira he spoke to. 

Much needed to be done, but to Jon none was as high a priority as wrapping his own thin arms around Tim’s shoulders and repeating that promise over and over in his head.

He would not lose anyone else. Not to the Dark, not to the Lonely, not to the End. 

It was a finite oath sworn to the finite stars, and one Jon would cling to until his last breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's a reference for tim's appearance in each form: alive, ghost, nightmare face, and witness!](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613221373047914496/now-that-we-got-to-the-witness-reveal-in-rtd-i-can)
> 
> coming soon: miles to go. miles and miles to go.
> 
> catch me at [@titanfalling](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	2. Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Be careful, Witness.” The Distortion’s voice curled through the air like smoke. “Before you lose your why in all those whens.”_
> 
> Or, in which the road’s end is in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some art before we begin:  
> [this lovely piece by angel of nightmare tim being his beautiful nightmare self!](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613392903921893376/ofdreamsanddoodles-and-to-you-im-a-right)  
> [another one of my own that i was sitting on for a good month before ch1 of witness. i died irl.](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613315914804379648/finally-finally-ive-posted-the-relevant-chapter)
> 
> because the next installment is the last one, i went ahead and made a whole-series promo post. [check it out and reblog right here!](https://titanfalling.tumblr.com/post/613489612474777600/as-season-5-gets-closer-we-also-get-closer-to-the)
> 
> suggested listening: woke up a rebel by reuben and the dark

It was probably morbid to the point of cliche to process being a murderer on the path to his own headstone.

He couldn’t even claim that he’d thought he wasn’t capable of killing someone — his threat to Elias was no bluff. Even before all the horrible death and everything, back when he was alive, there were more than a few days where he’d wanted nothing more than to grab one of Elias’s stupid engraved fountain pens and introduce it to the man’s jugular. 

Well, he’d told Oliver he didn’t like the term Witness because it lacked agency, right? Whoever first said _be careful what you wish for_ probably hadn’t meant it for this particular context, but if the shoe fit.

He was long overdue for a talk with Daisy. She must have a higher body count than him. She’d know how to handle all— all this.

_Was_ hers higher? Did he count deaths he failed to prevent along with ones he caused? If so, that’d bring it from eighteen to… to a number he wasn’t particularly interested in dwelling on. The plane crash alone put him in triple digits. Even without that, eighteen was no small number. 

The part that bothered him most was his guilt — or, his _lack_ of it. In the moments just after, it’d overwhelmed, but was that just because Jon saw? Because he’d once believed that, objectively, it was wrong to kill? Still, even in life there was exception upon exception for that. It wasn’t self-defense without a body to harm or a life to end, but it _was_ in defense. There was a reason. The Institute was, for better or worse, his resting place. Neither it nor the people inside were to be harmed.

Everyone in the People’s Church was going to die somewhen. There was no getting around that. Their choices merely decided the point at which _when_ became _now,_ and the ones who thought it was a good idea to go for some revenge for their Star made a damn bad choice.

It’d be nice if any of that rang as anything but justification even in his own thoughts. 

G-d, how was it he thought of the Institute, the place he tried all he could to escape, as his resting place rather than the cemetery he walked now? Was it because there was no body under his headstone? The way Oliver told it, there was no body _anywhere._

Just like Danny. No body, empty grave. And Tim thought the last conversation they’d have about copying each other was when Danny toyed with growing his own hair out when he went to uni — not his style, he’d eventually decided, but it’d worked on him. Most things did. 

Could he even still claim the name on his headstone? Jon had insisted on calling him that name, yes, but he was far from the man who’d sat for his first interview at the Institute with a spotless resume and plenty of bullshit about how he was super into ghost hunting, for real. 

People changed, of course. That man at the interview was also far from the one who’d taken his last breath with a vicious smile on his face as he squeezed the detonator in hand. 

Whatever he was now, part of that was the Witness. It wasn’t going anywhere. Not it, not the eighteen bodies, not whichever bodies lay ahead.

He wasn’t naive enough to assume nothing else like that would come, nor that he would never have to kill something again. Someone. Somewhen. It was kind of Jon to insist that he shouldn’t have to, of course, but there was no way. Too many things wanted Jon dead. Too many things wanted to destroy the Institute, which would take out Martin and Basira. Daisy, too.

He killed. He would have to do so again, no telling when. At this point, he had half a mind to walk back to that prison and finish the job on Elias. Wasn’t like he had some kind of moral qualm before, and now he knew he had the stomach for it. If going full-Witness wasn’t a sign he was powerful enough to keep the others alive with the Eye bastard dead, he didn’t know what was. What could possibly stop him?

The headstone next to his own was reminder enough. 

_I can’t imagine you’ll ever be numb to seeing how long it took for Danny Stoker to die._

The thought alone sent a freezing liquid nitrogen flood through his veins as his empty lungs choked on dread.

Somehow, somehow, not knowing felt worse. The Eye’s stubborn influence, no doubt. Imagination was cruel and pulled no punches. Ignorance was not bliss. 

No. The Stranger had far more imagination to its cruelty than he could ever know, and he would keep his questions. His last memory of his brother wasn’t a pleasant one, but infinitely better than answers. 

If he couldn’t claim the name on his grave… Could he still claim Danny as his brother? The Witness cared about no one and nothing. If he kept on this road, if he lived as his title, would he, somewhen, no longer care for Danny as well?

How would he possibly survive that?

Maybe a cold break was for the best. Clean. Decisive. Sidestepped the distant misery that would come with his fading bonds. 

Sound logic, but he— he couldn’t. Even considering it made him feel sick.

The two side by side headstones, for some reason, calmed. Maybe he couldn’t still claim the name on his own, but that name was where it’d always been in life — next to his brother. That was what mattered.

  
  


_TIMOTHY STOKER DANIEL STOKER_

_1984 — 2017 1987 — 2013_

  
  


It was quiet as always. The day wasn’t as warm and bright as it had been when he and Martin sat together against his grave, but that was alright. It didn’t matter. 

He could sit here again. Alone. Let himself just… not think for a while. Not bother to fulfill some unspoken obligation by talking to someone who could never again hear him, and just _be._ What reason did he have to do anything else? Nowhere to be until he felt another pull. Why not just sit by his… sit by Danny and wait?

A small bit of blue foam and plastic caught his eye, and Tim remembered his purpose. 

His fingertips broke the few strands of cobwebs as he picked up that g-ddamn stress ball, the one sitting in wait by his grave. 

His grave, where he told Martin to leave notes. A joke, yes, but Martin was the sort to remember the little things.

His grave, where the message left on Martin’s desk waited here for him in turn.

His grave, where Martin knew he would find it. 

_You gave this to me when I needed, and now I’m giving it back to you._

And now, Martin was giving it to Tim once more. He no longer needed it. 

This was bad. This was very, very bad. 

The sprint back to the Institute took what may have been no time at all, but hell if he was paying attention. Of the lights there he could always feel, none had gone out, but some were murky. Difficult to track for certain. Fogged, yes, but with a disorientation he only ever sensed in the tunnels.

Of course, the g-ddamn tunnels. Great.

No point in going through the front door. The road towards the cemetery came to the back of the Institute, but it wasn’t like walls meant anything to him. A flash of darkness and he was inside; another and he dropped down into the archives to see Basira and Daisy flanking a door. 

Screaming. Gunshots. Dead falling in the same inevitable rhythm of a heartbeat. None he was pulled to, not yet.

“The hell is going on?”

Before he even finished the first word, Daisy’s eyes locked on him with a sharp-toothed snarl. Any fade to the light inside her was long gone — she was a wildfire kept in check by nothing more than her own will and the woman at her side.

Basira kept her eyes trained ahead, but her relief was palpable.

“Tim! Peter and Martin are in the tunnels for the next step of Peter’s plan. Elias is coming this way — he had something on his guards, could’ve left whenever. He and Jonah Magnus are the—”

“—The same person, _shit._ I _knew_ he felt wrong, but— but it was muted, he didn’t—”

“He bodyhopped. Each _body_ had a normal lifespan, he didn’t.”

_It really is a shame that you left us when you did. You would have been quite useful._

Said right as Tim first registered something wrong about him. Threw him off.

_The eye color is wrong, but it’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. All the same, it no longer matters much, does it?_

“He— Jesus, he straight out told me I would’ve been—” Just the thought made him nauseous.

“Freak out later.” Always unshakable in a crisis. Tim could kiss her for it if that wouldn’t be, on every level, weird as hell. 

Before she could give any further direction, an awful voice scraped through the air. He didn’t need to feel the Stranger tighten around his throat to recognize it.

“Hello! What have we here, new friends?”

The creature’s form was just as stretched and impossible as it had been when he and Martin caught a glimpse so long ago, so recently in the grand scheme, but that didn’t matter. It had those short brown curls. Pale skin. He could even make out the neat grey skirt she used to always wear. 

The unshakeable memory of how her— how _its_ hands felt — not the impossible, monstrous form before him, but _not_ Sasha — made his nausea double, but boiling hatred overpowered it all. 

This thing killed Sasha. Killed her, and took everything of her. Forced her _when_ into _far too soon._

If anyone had a right to make its long-overdue when into _now,_ it was Sasha. Wherever she was, he could only pray that him doing so in her stead was enough.

“Tim!”

He hadn’t even realized he’d started to walk forward when the whipcrack of Basira’s voice stopped him. 

“But that’s—”

“I know.” She did look away from the door now to level with him. Whether she was troubled by the corpse eyes he apparently had, she had never once shown it. “But Jon is alone in the tunnels, looking for Martin and Peter. Elias might already be there. No one can navigate down there towards the center, but you can find them.”

Tim couldn’t speak, not with the roar of death and fury and _too little too late too little too late move act go do something_ ringing in his head. He looked back to the thing, the one that’d killed Sasha and turned Jon against him and came from what _took Danny,_ and it was here. It was here and he was death and he could _do something._

“Tim.” Again, she looked him right in the eye. “Trust me.”

He did. Damn it all, he did.

Without another glance to the hateful thing and challenging his own resolve once more, he gave a short, tight nod. “You’re not dying.” To Daisy: “Neither of you are.”

Basira raised her gun once more. “Go.”

And, with that last desperate command as his goodbye, he did.

  
  


* * *

  
  


One would think a lack of regard for walls would make finding the center of a maze easy. That, plus the ability to feel people as guiding points down to the core of his being? A snap, no question.

That was, as Tim found, a very unfortunate oversimplification. 

Jon couldn’t have gotten far, he couldn’t; not when he still followed the limits of physical space. How the hell was the comet trail Tim caught glimpses of pinging all over the damn place?

Could be the tunnels themselves. Did they shift in space? Did some connect with each other in different ways? Did they change, and by how much? Where was Jon in this shifting sprawl? Where was Martin?

Tim’s voice echoed against the dark stone as he called their names. Damp in this stretch, and natural. Last stretch was neat, dry bricks, all that same uniform grey. None of it made sense. Christ, he needed to stop expecting things to keep to any sort of reality. 

At least the End followed its own internal logic. All these things without that, no rhyme or reason beyond their own nonsense, he couldn’t stand them. 

“Looking for someone?”

Wonderful. The pinnacle of supernatural nonsense. A splash of yellow wood broke the monotone surrounding them, but that by no means meant Tim was glad to see it. 

“Where are they?” His voice hung low. No need to make friends with the thing that’d imprisoned him and Martin for— for _however_ long. 

It smiled, ruby lipstick caught in the endless refracting reflections of its own teeth. “Whoever do you mean?”

Stone made no sound under his feet as he strode forward. He could see darkness tracing lines up under the skin of his wrists, but it was hard to care. “You know who I mean. Where are they?”

It hummed at a tone that buzzed in his skull. “It’s hard to say. Space is difficult here.” 

Blood in his teeth, venom in his voice. “Tell me or fuck off.”

“I might not be able to hurt you, Witness, but you’re no Archivist.” Each word came as a spiralling barbed wire laugh. “You can’t compel me.” It winked, though somehow this only made the frantic dance of color in its remaining eye — eyes? — even more dizzying. “I would hurry if I were you. Best get there before Terminus pulls you himself.” 

Hate fear rage panic all spun in his chest at the same rate of the nonexistent geometry of the halls behind it. There was no small temptation to _pull_ this thing from the halls that formed half its being. Piecemeal. It might be _of_ the Spiral, but the Distortion was not the whole of its patron, meaning it had its own _when._

The thing straightened up, taller than it was before. Some intimidation play, maybe, or just a marker of how its form changed without ceasing. “If you want to try for some kind of retribution, feel free to come in the door. Take your anger out on some mirrors.” 

There was no reply worth the time it would cost. No point in going for some kind of snappy last word, either. None of this mattered. 

Again, silent footsteps. It had those it must find. It must. It must. 

“Be careful, Witness.” The Distortion’s voice curled through the air like smoke. “Before you lose your _why_ in all those _when_ s.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The tunnels were dark. Dark and deep. Endless and dark and deep. 

Why did it want to append the word _lovely_ to that? Lovely and dark and deep. 

No matter. There was a light lost in these tunnels, and another so heavily obscured by fog and sorrow it could only just catch the haze. It was here to find those lights. They were in danger of going out, and they weren’t meant to. Not here. Not now. Not thiswhen. Perhaps that was not the Witness’s role, but that didn’t mean it had any less plan to follow through. 

How far had it walked? Through walls, along them, looking, hunting, hoping. Miles, at least. Miles. Miles to go. 

It could feel something flicker. Some shake of unearned half-life left to rot beneath the earth. The flicker tore its way through reality in a long-left point of _wrong._ Wrong that should be corrected. Wrong that it could correct, but that wasn’t its priority. 

_Should_ it be? Its purpose was the order of whens and watching, but some whens were… were wrong. To be stopped. The ones it was looking for were not marked as soon, or now, but that meant little when time never ceased its march. Soon could be around any of time’s endless grey-brick corners.

Around corners. In these endless, dark corridors. Lovely and dark and deep and _where_ was that from? How many miles must it go? What was it missing?

It was missing its lights. It had to find them. The stable point back behind, back above, was still there. She said to trust her, and it did, it did. 

Keep looking. Keep going. Miles to go. Miles to go. 

It moved faster now, frantic, frenetic. These lights, it needed— it needed to find them. They were in danger. They were in danger and it needed them. Miles to go. Dark and deep and miles to go. 

One light went out like the breaking of all the ribs in its chest. It staggered. 

Not out. Not out. Gone. Gone in the mist and the fog and gone. 

Steps hurried because maybe, maybe, it failed one but maybe it could stop the other before it— 

The other went— left. Both left. Absent. Never to return. Forsaken.

It stopped in the middle of the stone web spun beneath all. How could it even pretend to look for what it would never find? By the nature of the paths here, whether it followed them or not, it would never find something it could no longer feel. There was no end here. Only blank, grey stone. 

Miles to go. 

There was more to that, wasn’t there. The… the woods, yes. The woods were lovely, and dark, and deep. And… 

Miles to go before I sleep, yes, that was it. 

Why did it walk, still? That frantic frenetic need to _find them_ because. Because it must. It must. The fog choked and the eyes never wavered and these tunnels, these damn tunnels that carried nothing but hateful memories, it needed the lights out of here and away from them all. Safe. Please, please, safe. 

Was it too late? They hadn’t gone dark, but they weren’t _here._ If it couldn’t feel one of those core lights, that meant it wasn’t there to feel. Not yet claimed by the End, maybe, but not anywhere it could find them. Gone. 

There was another line it was missing. There was. The woods are lovely, and dark and deep, but I…

I have promises to keep. 

_You promise me right now — you do not give up on me, do you hear me? You do not give up._

It— _Tim,_ his name was Tim, and he had promises to keep. 

Every single bit of him screamed to move, to search, to find. Let his fear speed his steps and anger sharpen his eyes. 

No. No, if the End gave him one thing it was patience. It wasn’t a gift meant for anything like this, but Tim didn’t give a damn what it wanted from him. 

He might be the End’s Witness. Not much he could do about that, not now. He might be that Witness, but he was still, _still_ Tim Stoker.

And so, Tim drew on that patience and stopped where he was. Put aside the tunnels, the fear, the anger, the need to move and find and watch. With his tie to Basira keeping him steady, he focused. 

Jon and Martin were not dead. He knew they weren’t. Wherever they were, they were alive. 

If they were alive, he could find them. Anywhere, anywhen. Here, now. 

_There._

The premade stone paths meant nothing. He would not let them steer him, not when he knew exactly where to go. 

The center. The Panopticon. Originally designed by Smirke, of course, because history best repeated itself in ways that mocked.

High stone walls circled a watchtower, all worn with age and without a cobweb in sight. Central to all of that was… was something. Lonely, of course, but nothing Tim could _see_ with anything as limited as human perception. An entryway spun in smoke. Through it, that’s where Jon and Martin were. 

Tim couldn’t follow. He had no Eye to show him the way, nor any true tie to the Lonely that might call it to reach for him. 

He couldn’t follow, but anything like this needed an anchor. Before, in the Buried, Jon had used his rib, but it was only when Martin came and stayed at Tim’s side that he found his way home. 

Jon’s home was no building, no bone. Nor was Martin’s. Home was who waited at the end of the road.

There was no reason Tim should’ve been able to see into the Lonely any better than the Buried, but he didn’t care. He needed to hold on to those tethers between them. Give them something to follow out of that place. 

At the very edge of his awareness still in this room, he felt that flicker of a half-life left to fester here too long, and some small part of him thought to pursue that. Pursue and destroy. 

If Tim followed that, he would lose his tenuous grip on Jon and Martin. That was unacceptable. Any sort of retribution was negligible when compared to saving them. 

The lights far, far away wavered, clouded by smoke and desperation. Keeping that grip was tantamount to holding mist in his hands.

What was more antithetical to the Lonely than bonds? What better way could he hold on to them, and keep their path home lit?

_“Would you be— Would you be open to taking one of the archival assistant positions? Elias said three assistants is the norm, and because we— we work well together, I thought you might be a prudent place to begin.”_

_Tim couldn’t help smiling at that. The way Jon danced around things like this would never cease to amuse him. “You can say we’re friends, Jon, it’s fine.”_

_A short cough. “Yes, well. Would you?”_

_“Ah, hanging out with my friend-turned-boss in a creepy basement all hours of the workday. It’s what I always dreamed.” He hooked an arm around Jon’s shoulders. “Since you asked so nicely, I’m in.”_

And g-d, those easy days where none of their scars were visible and none of their hurts were fresh felt like eons ago, but Tim knew they may as well have been yesterday. 

Time was so, so endless, and yet these pieces still stood firm in its tide.

_“Come on, you’ve been cooped up all day. Let’s get some lunch.”_

_Martin blinked at him with flat surprise. “What? I mean, I live here for— for now, so I don’t know how much I can avoid being cooped up.”_

_“Still. No reason to not stretch your legs.” Tim tugged Martin along, grip loose enough that Martin could pull away if he so chose. “D’you remember what sunlight looks like? Being a nonstop basement-dweller, and all.”_

_Martin got that tentative look he did when risking some humor. “This is probably a bad time to tell you I’ve secretly been a vampire all along.”_

And things went bad, yes. Each of their lives twined with fear on a cosmic level. Calling them pawns implied that any of those beings saw them enough to even consider them pieces in the game they played, but how could that possibly matter to him?

How could Tim ever, ever care what those beings saw as important or worth attention? How could he when he felt these ties, strong as spider’s silk and just as easily brushed away by those who’d never lived on them? 

A pull. A tug away from this place, this center where he was needed. He didn’t move. The pull came again, firmer. There was something he was meant to Witness, somewhen else. It didn’t matter. He didn’t, couldn’t care, and stayed just as he was.

_The tunnels were endless, but Jon’s weight at his side kept him focused despite the haze still shrouding his thoughts. He had more close calls in the past ten minutes than he did the entire year previous, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because he was here with Jon and they would be fine._

_The corridors were endless, but Martin’s hand in his kept him present despite the dizzying twisting shifting everywhere. The mirrors taunted and some corners hid spiralling laughter and he was so, so scared, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because he was here and Martin was here and they were real._

He couldn’t, wouldn’t let go. His promises, his words were all he had now, and he would not go back on them. He would not break his promise. He would not give up.

They never gave up on him. 

_The weight of every life on his shoulders. “I need to see this through, Tim.”_

_Holding what he still had yet with desperate hands. “Please, Tim, I— I am not losing you.”_

Though Tim had no true shoulders to share the load or hands to reach out and hold, his mouth didn’t need to be real for the words it said to write themselves with unshakeable truth.

_I promise. I’ll stay. I need you to stay out of my way. I need you to not die. I need you. I need you. I need you._

And yes, sometimes grey eyes turned silversharp, and yes, sometimes the only movement in fog was words that cut to the bone, and yes, the line between all-consuming emotion and not-dark not-light nothing void felt thinner every day, but those days didn’t matter less because of it.

He would not lose those irritating furrows Jon got around his eyes when about to obstinately argue something for no reason but its own sake. He would not lose that stupid arch to Martin’s brow when he was about to say something extraordinarily petty. He would not lose the quiet feeling in his chest when he opened Jon’s office door to find him dozing over the scattered papers covering his desk. He would not lose the soft laughter when Martin lowered his walls to let himself relax, even for only a moment.

He would not lose them. Not to the Lonely, not to the Eye. He would keep them, and in turn not be lost to the End.

Could Jon find Martin and escape under his own power? Probably, considering he was the most stubborn man twice-alive to ever walk the earth. He could do it alone, but he didn’t have to. 

None of them, not Tim, not Jon, not Martin, none of them had to be alone. 

And, hand in hand, Jon led Martin to the when that needed them. Hand in hand, Jon led Martin home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming soon: the End.


End file.
